


The Grandmaster

by Altariel



Series: The House of Mardil [8]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chess, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 20:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18454142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: In which Denethor and his sons play correspondence chess.





	The Grandmaster

**The Grandmaster**

_Minas Tirith, 2994 TA_  

In general, Denethor did not intervene in the boys’ affairs. Tutors informed him daily of scholarly progress, instructors of training-at-arms, and should any questions arise, he knew at once. The boys learned early in life that he did not tolerate misbehaviour, and they did not often cause trouble. There were occasional episodes of horseplay (they were still boys, after all), and he knew they kept some secrets from him (mostly concerning their mother). Yes, the younger had a dreamy tendency that needed careful monitoring, and he suspected the older of the occasional prevarication (usually on the other’s account). But on the whole he was not dissatisfied with the younger (who, it must be said, was dutiful and honourable), and more than satisfied with the older (his quiet delight).

No, they were not bad sons. And provided they worked hard, excelled, did not cause trouble, and kept strife between them at such a level that he was not disturbed, he was content by this point to limit his interventions to the strictly necessary. When the older left for the army, he and his younger (more similar than either would like to admit) fell into a comfortable pattern with each other. In later years, as the distance between them grew ever wider and began to stiffen into mistrust, he would remember sometimes these peaceful evenings together: one working, the other studying, both bent over books or papers; the quiet conversation over supper; the games of chess. 

And then the letters from his brother began to arrive.  

Denethor didn’t notice at first. But over the space of a few weeks, the younger one became hunched over the board, dejected, murmuring moves to himself. It was this last that disturbed his father, who found that some nights he simply could not concentrate on his own tasks.  

“Really, Faramir, must you mutter away like that?”

“I’m sorry, sir—”

“What is causing all this?”

“It’s…” The boy hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Well…” He flushed. “Boromir is beating me at chess!”

Denethor looked up. No, that didn’t sound very likely. Boromir had no interest in the game; he only played to humour his father and, latterly, his little brother. Denethor stood up and came over to the board.

“Let me see.” The boy handed him his brother’s latest letter, covered in Boromir’s execrable scrawl and blotches of ink. He read the note written at the end: his latest move. He studied the board.

“Show me,” he said.

Faramir, obediently, set the pieces back to their starting positions. Then he walked his father through the match so far. “Interesting,” said Denethor. “Can you remember what happened the last time you played?”

Faramir dutifully set that out. Within half-a-dozen moves, Denethor’s suspicions were confirmed. He knew his older son’s game. Whoever was providing the moves that were causing the younger one so much trouble, it was not Boromir.

“I see,” he said.

The boy set up the current match again and sat frowning at the board.

His father rose from his chair. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d move the captain.” He left him to it. The boy lost the game within the week. 

Denethor pondered the situation for several days after. To some extent he sympathised with the older one: Faramir had plagued him for games during his recent leave, and had not concealed his delight in winning. But this despondency on the part of the younger one was hardly desirable. The whole purpose of encouraging this interest in chess had been to kindle in an otherwise even-tempered child some spark of competition, a desire to win. This had the potential to quench the flame, and that served no good purpose. One day this biddable boy would have to lead men into battle. No, this could not continue.

But what might he do? He could, he supposed, tell the younger of the deceit – but he had no desire to lessen his brother in his eyes. Gondor needed their bond to be firm. He could warn the older that his joke had gone too far – but the story might well find its way back to Faramir, with the same effect. No, thought their father, this required a subtler approach; a less direct but nonetheless quite directed intervention.  

This was how he found himself playing two games of correspondence chess.

The first step was to intercept their letters. This was easy enough to achieve: a few quiet orders in the ears of his more trusted retainers, and their letters to each other were sent first to his desk. He opened them, read their next moves, and then sealed them again. He set up two boards in his private study to keep on top of the two games.

And then he set to work. Letters came in from one son. He altered the move, and sent them on. Letters came back from another son. He altered the move, and sent them on. He might even have enjoyed himself.

He despatched Boromir’s accomplice in fairly short order. The game with Faramir went on a little longer, until, one evening, he saw the boy packing away the pieces.

“What happened?” he said. “Did your brother win?”

“No,” said Faramir. “But he said in his last letter that he didn’t have time to play any more.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“No…” The boy shrugged. “A little, perhaps. But if time is short, I would rather have a longer letter from him.”

Denethor nodded, and returned to his reading. “You can still play against me,” he said, from behind his book. “If that’s any consolation.”

The boy seemed satisfied by that. Their evenings returned to their previous tranquillity. The letters kept passing across his desk. And the notes on the games were stacked together, and bound neatly, and left on a shelf with everything else for his heir to one day find. 

* * *

_Altariel, 12 th April 2019_

 


End file.
